All His Angels Are Starving

hello! i'm so sorry i've been ghost, it's been an awful miserable couple of months. but now i'm back >:)
i wrote an update on everything in a public post here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/108085319

This chapter is the opening to book 2!! ALL HER DEMONS ARE BURNING (working title, might change, but i like it a lot). I'm keeping the chapter count going from book1 since that just makes it easier for webnovels. Book 1 is going to be pulished soon btw!!!!!!!!
love you,
lots to come,
i can't wait!!

also if you'd like to throw hands, come hang out in my discord server! we have pretty clouds: https://discord.gg/gr8hDqSnmu

 

 

Jibra'il would be punished, his feathers torn out and nailed to the eyes that covered his back and arms and chest. How was he to face the other Archangels? He had failed.

He would be the last to reach the Monument. He could sense the presences of the other three above him, yet he slowed his ascent through the clouds, wings flapping at a hesitant pace. In the world of light, he'd reached such altitude that the only remaining light was not the light of the world, but the silver light emanating from his muscular form. His six wings flapped in turn, and the countless eyes that covered his body blinked and wept. Tears fell away like raindrops. His heart was heavy, for he had failed. And his failure would not go unpunished.

One hundred Survival Challenges had been issued at his command as they always have been. Every two thousand years when the worlds stood in order, in perfect harmony, he would rip one hundred puncture wounds in the fabric between worlds. One hundred Victors should have emerged as they have always emerged.

Though all hundred punctures were closed, only ninety-nine Victors returned to the material world. Only ninety-nine Survival Challenges ended.

One challenge remained in effect. This challenge had reached beyond the Veil and now threatened the very existence of the material world. The proper world. The world in which He was meant to emerge, truly victorious, inheritor of creation, the harbinger of destiny, to bring forth a Golden Age until the sacred trumpet was finally blown and all the worlds would kneel.

But now?

Jibra'il's mighty wings beat nervously as he burst through another layer of cloud and emerged in a spray of glistening moisture. His long dark hair swished, and several feathers fell away, dissolving into vapor; he always shed when he was anxious.

The four archangels had been summoned; they had not met like this in tens of thousands of years, not since the inception of the Great Work. Time rolled forward slowly, from Challenge to Challenge, and Jibra'il had worked his best, instigating messiahs and guiding civilizations and harnessing rulers, but now, for a reason he could not explain or comprehend, he was certain time had accelerated. Time was no longer inconsequential. It was slipping through his feathered wingtips, and he was terrified of running out.

He was terrified the universe would end before the Great Work finished and they'd achieved perfection. It would've all been for naught. But these weren't thoughts he was willing to share with the other archangels, so he prayed instead to Him, hoping He would share some guidance, some adjustments to the plan. It was easier when orders came from Him; much less worrying on anyone else's part. The Almighty's will was absolute.

As he neared the Penultimate Cloud, the cloud before the Throne, it darkened and grew stormy, as if the cloud could sense his conflictions. He had another reason to be hesitant; she was there. His once beloved. He wasn’t ready to see her again. One hundred thousand years had not been enough to dull the pain, but this was a summons he could not ignore.

Jibra'il retracted his exoskeleton. His was dark gray, metallic in appearance, and as it peeled back from his face, his silver light bloomed. Headfirst, he plunged into the dark underbelly of the cloud, and it welcomed him with a clap of thunder.

The raging storm battered him every which way, and he flapped his six wings furiously. Lightning crackled at his presence, curving around him, shooting through him, but other than a slight tickling sensation, it could not hurt him for how does light harm light? When he pierced the surface and emerged, he came to a stop with one final flap of his wings. Whisps of the cloud trailed away from his naked form, fading, precipitation dripping off his light, evaporating in hissing tendrils of steam.

Jibra'il smoothed his long dark hair back, away from his face as he took in the awe-inspiring view. The cloud wasn't mighty in size as Jibra'il could've flown across it within moments, but it was higher than anything else in the worlds, save for the Throne, so it was called the Penultimate Cloud. The cloud closest to Him, closest to eternal paradise.

At its center stood the Monument, a black, box-shaped structure made from a material found nowhere else in any world. It produced no light or warmth and had absolutely no color, so its darkness was rather the absence of any light, any feature. Some called it the nothing box. Some called it the frequented box, as hundreds of thousands of angels made pilgrimage to worship it.

High above, like a multicolored halo, the worshipping angels flew in circles. It was the daily prayer; every day a new assortment of angels would rise to the heavens and worship Him. As Jibra'il stepped carefully across the cloud, he could feel their radiating warmth. The vibrations of their prayers, their desperate cries for love and forgiveness, for perfection and glory, offering themselves completely in supplication to Him.

This was once Jibra'il's favorite place. To sit up here by the Monument, to bathe himself in the light of countless prayers, to submit himself to prayer. Except now, he knew the other Archangels awaited him inside. And she was inside; his heart raced at the thought of seeing her again, though a part of him would rather tear his wings off and throw himself from the cloud.

He marched up to the Monument and passed through its front wall. The darkness sucked in his light and form, reverberated through him like an echo, scattering him before he emerged, whole again, on the other side. This was a privilege awarded only to the Archangels and select beloveds of the Almighty. No one else would survive the threshold.

The inside was an intimate space, small and cramped. Golden circular patterns splashed across every wall, including the ceiling, and they turned rhythmically, thrumming with light as he entered. The floor was the cloud itself, dark and storming. Standing in the center of the space was a tall voluptuous figure shimmering with green light. His heart skipped a beat.

She wore a sheer emerald gown, the neckline cut so deep, it showcased her pale-green bosom and navel, and there were slits along the bottom that revealed her long legs. She had long dark hair, a high forehead, and piercing eyes that were all black, set on a face as green as her gown. She was the archangel, Rafa'el. The Flower. The Scribe. The Trumpet Blower.

Angel (stage vii) (level 200)

"You took your time, beloved," she said, her voice as clear and gentle as a ritual bell on an early spring morning. Jibra'il averted his eyes, unable to hold her gaze, and certainly not able to look at her form. Though none of them wore their exoskeletons in the Monument, she wasn't like most angels; she preferred human attire and always wore exceptional garments that accentuated her form. It was pleasing, she'd say. For her own eyes, and His, and, she'd add with a shy smile, Jibra'il's.

On either side stood the other two archangels. The one to the right was Mika'el who radiated with blue and purple light in turn, sometimes as bright as a sunrise, sometimes as dark as a bruise.

Angel (stage vii) (level 741)

She leaned against a swirling golden pattern, her arms crossed and her eyes shut. She was slender and lean, not as tall as Rafa'el, but she preferred to be small. She'd presented as male for centuries until deciding it wasn't right for her, slimming down to a more streamlined presence that was better suited for war. Even her wings were minimal, growing between her arms and her sides like webbing. Mika'el was the Warrior. The Relentless Storm. The Inciter.

On the left was Azra'il, the archangel of death. His form was muscular and wide; he took up quite a bit of space inside the monument, and his light was charcoal colored, like the ashes after the flames had burned out.

Angel (stage vii) (level 332)

Four enormous wings curled inwards on his back, countless eyes shining across them. He was the largest of the archangels. With a necklace of skulls over his broad chest, his hair a colony of miniature red and black serpents, each one undulating and moving of their own free will. Their scales shone like rubies stained with blood. Azra'il was the Guide. The Hellfire. And the Warden. Around his waist was a strap of leather that covered his modesty, but the leather was cut from the skin of the Tarnished, a new one every day, and Jibra'il had always found that unsettling.

Like Mika'el, Jibra'il much preferred to come naked, unashamed, for it was not his body that ever brought him shame. It was his failures. The messiahs he'd failed to save from evil whispers, the challenges he'd overseen. Neither of the other two angels spoke. They must be furious. They didn't even look at him as he approached, taking careful steps over the cloud floor. It reacted with his every step, electrical energy sizzling up his toes and curving around his silver legs.

"Kneel," said Rafa'el, raising her voice to that grand splendor Jibra'il had once loved so dearly. It was her commanding voice. Her powerful voice. She held out her hand and unfurled her slender, green fingers to reveal a bright, red fruit.

Jibra'il knelt on the storm cloud, his arms at his side. He picked the fruit off Rafa'el's hand with his teeth, unable to stop himself from glancing at her body. It made him jealous, knowing the other two had knelt here as well, had eaten the fruit off her beautiful hand, had seen her chest and hips from this angle, but jealousy was a sin.

Staring into her eyes as she stroked his hair, his lips closed around the fruit, and he crushed it between his teeth. Blood, hot and thick, gushed into his mouth and ran down his throat. The heavy fluid spread through his silver body, the redness curling and blooming before fading, and he shuddered as he absorbed it.

"Rise," she said in her grand voice, and Jibra'il stood. He came up to her chest where her gown split open, and she held him to the green warmth of her bosom. "It has been too long since I've seen you last, my beloved one." This she spoke quietly, in the private whispered voice shared only between angels who'd known the other's light intimately.

He shut his eyes and sighed, the fruit’s blood still streaming from his lips and absorbing into his form as he basked in her glow. She was the light of life he liked to think. Like the plants that covered the material world; he wanted her to cover him. To grow all over him and into him. Her embrace was so soft, so welcoming, and he longed for the days they'd been lovers. But so many years had passed since he'd held her in the privacy of their cloud chambers, their light blended into one, silver and emerald, like treetops shivering in moonlight, that he felt he had no right to overstay his welcome.

He had loved her more furiously and more passionately than any star in any universe could ever dream of burning. And he loved her still, and he knew he'd always love her, all the way to the end of time, when all the lights of all the worlds had run out of Energy, and all that remained was darkness. He would love her through eternity.

But it had been easier to love her before, when it hadn't hurt, when Jibra'il had been Jibra'el, and their eyes and wings would blink in unison, inseparable as salt in the winds of the sea. Then the Almighty had chosen Rafa'el as the scribe, to carve the ruminations of destiny onto the ancient Tablet with her ability, Veridian Scripture. She'd been claimed by Him, and they'd realized that they loved each other more than Him. That was the gravest sin of all, and she had made her decision.

In grief, Jibra'el transformed into Jibra'il, taking the shape of a man, untangling himself from Rafa'el because it only hurt. It always hurt.

Stepping away, Jibra'il took her hand and kissed the fingers that marked down time itself, and she touched his cheek, a longing, mournful gaze in her eyes that asked countless questions. Are you alright? I miss you. I hope you are well. But she turned away with a swish of her robes, and he stepped back, the customary conditions satisfied for the discussion of holy matters.

"Have you heard the news?" she said.

Jibra'il looked at the others. He'd expected admonishment. Anger. They'd already known that a Survival Challenge hadn't ended. Mika'el sighed and didn't say a word, but she met Jibra'il's eyes and glowered, her skin more purple than red.

Azra'il picked at the teeth of one of his necklace skulls. "Mortals have awakened abilities to challenge our own," he said in a deep, gravelly voice. His brows were furrowed. They were serpents too, their heads meeting at the center where their tongues darted between his blood-red eyes. "There were two, in fact."

Jibra'il dimmed with confusion. "The count stopped at ninety-nine. The work has not been completed. Isn't that why we've gathered? I have failed."

Azra'il shook his head. His serpents whisked about. "You haven't failed, dear brother. You orchestrated the Challenges as you always do. This crime was the work of interlopers."

"What?" Jibra'il. He simultaneously felt relief and anxiety; relief that he wasn't to blame, anxiety for what he didn’t know.

"Interlopers," repeated Rafa'el. “The Antithesis has made its presence known.” She sank to the cloud floor, her emerald robe spreading like the petals of a flower. She looked so beautiful, it ached to stare for too long, but Jibra'il realized it was her way of ordering everyone to sit. She was the weakest in level, but Rafa’el was the closest to Him. She held authority over all angels, all creation.

The others slid to the floor as well. Azra'il squatted, the leather cloth flapping between his thighs, his broad chest presented proudly. Mika'el sat with her legs folded beneath her, her hands folded neatly on her lap, her webbed wings nearly invisible.

Jibra'il completed the circle, his fingers digging into his palms, his legs crossed beneath him. He saw Rafa’el’s gaze flicker toward his manhood, but he didn’t move to cover himself. "I thought it was me. I thought my sins... I thought my abilities had failed. I thought I had failed."

Rafa’el smiled at him, her eyes shimmering as she shook her head. "No, my beloved, you could never fail. You have always been dutiful in carrying out His will."

He knew that if she could, she'd reach out and touch him, not in the welcoming way she'd embraced him before, but the deeper way, where their lights would merge. He knew that he would let her, despite the sanctity of the Monument, and he knew that that was why she would never.

Rafa’el continued. "The Challenge could not end due to the actions of two young mortals. Their love..." She paused on the word ‘love’ and glanced to the side. "It was their love, foolish and childish love that bound them together. One actualized an ability to reconstruct reality. The other severed her ties between spirit and form, becoming as the Tarnished do. Together, they circumvented the Challenge and returned to their world alongside other mortals whose sacrifice was foregone. No true Victor emerged, and thus the Survival Challenge continues. Within the world itself. Our Guidance System has already responded to these circumstances."

Jibr’il shook his head. His wings stretched by reflex, all his eyes opening and shutting, and he saw Mika'el’s large eye, the one on her chest, spring open in shock. But she regained her composure quickly, and Jibra'il tried to do the same. He put his face in his hands.

"Do you need a moment?" asked Rafa’el.

"No," said Jibra'il through his fingers. "I just do not understand. This is not how humans behave. In every Survival Challenge issued to humankind, they have never... they always, without fail, surrendered relentlessly to their needs." His wings flickered again, and it took more willpower than he was proud to admit to fold them back into place and shut all his eyes. He knew why she'd asked him and the others to sit. Had they been standing, he would've paced back and forth, and the storm beneath them would have responded in kind.

"It seems we have underestimated them," said Azra'il. He clucked his tongue. "You should see them in Hell. Filthy creatures."

"Hold your tongue," said Rafa'el coldly. "We do not speak ill of the dead. They serve their purpose."

"No, but they speak plenty ill to each other." Azra'il snorted. "Come listen to them when I rip their souls from their bodies. How they beg. How they scream. They would sell their own mothers, their own children to avoid the punishment."

As they went back and forth, Jibra'il's mind spun. Humans. He'd lived among their kind for so long. He'd watched civilizations emerge and fall. Rulers and ravagers, it was always the same. Brief moments of kindness and love, followed by tremendous strings of tragedy.

Humans always ruthlessly sought one thing: to meet their desires. Whether it was food or rest, mating or violence, humans were ruled by the needs and wants of their bodies. It was why sinful angels were punished, Tarnished, forced into physical flesh, forced to succumb to such madness, and prevented from ascending to divinity. To be material was to be sinful, and that was the nature of the Great Work. To eliminate all sin. To eradicate the cravings of the flesh. For all to be clean and holy.

He almost wanted to reject Rafa'el's news. But he knew she could not lie. She was unable to. She could not so much as even bend the truth, for since becoming the Scribe, she only spoke of things written on the Tablet.

And for the survival challenge to be in effect in the material world... effectively Rapture... this was the final war, whether they liked it or not. Whether it had been part of the plan or not, and he knew Rafa’el was shaken by this. It had not appeared in the tablet. It had not been projected. It had not been ordained. She would’ve informed all His angels if that were the case.

The final war was here, and if they waited too long, there would be nothing left. The material world would devour itself; humankind would end before they could be saved. And if they failed here, it would be the end of the Great Work.

He sat quietly, ruminating, as Rafa'el told the rest of the tale once Azra'il's distaste for humanity had quieted. Mika’el stood once, as if she had something to say, but she stared at them blankly, crossed her arms and shook her head, and sat back down. Lightning coursed through her blue and purple glow, and Azra'il had only laughed. Rafa'el squeezed Mika’el’s hand, and she shot Jibra'il a worried look before continuing.

She explained the ending of the hundredth challenge. Jibra'il was curious. It was obfuscated for some reason, and he'd sensed something powerful was at play. Which was why he'd run. He'd assumed he'd sinned. He'd assumed he'd be punished severely, but as Rafa’el explained the details, and even Azra'il leaned forward to listen, Jibra'il's feeling of unease grew monstrous.

One of the mortals had slaughtered her beloved in a Desecrated state of mind, and this confirmed his belief that humans were beyond sense, but the other, the mortal’s beloved, had openly sacrificed herself. Offered herself to save the Desecrated, to absolve the Desecrated of all sin. And her ability to reconstruct matter flowed into the severer.

"What of them?" asked Azra'il. His red eyes burned brightly as he raised his voice. "The dead one has been collected. She'd come peacefully. We should find the other."

“She has moved beyond our view,” said Rafa’el.

Jibra’il was speechless. Did the mortal know what she was capable of? Did she know the threat she posed? Despite this, he had the horrible foreboding that Rafa’el had even worse news to share.

The worst, spoke Rafa’el, lowering her gaze, her hand raised slightly, fingers moving as though she were marking the Tablet as she spoke. "The worst is what the severer did upon rejecting Victory, rejecting the challenge, and returning to the Material world."

They all held their breath, their lights shimmering. The golden patterns on the walls turned quickly, as if they too were disturbed by the news.

Rafa’el took a deep breath, her green light shining brilliantly before fading. "She's become the Second Mary and given birth. The Antithesis now has material form.”

"NO!" shouted Azra'il. Lightning shot through his enormous form, transforming into vicious red shades before crackling all around him. Every single one of his serpents hissed.

Mika'el gasped. They had waited two thousand years for a new Mary, to birth the Almighty into the world. And now even that was undone. This Mary, this second Mary, had plunged all the worlds into chaos. She'd birthed the Antithesis. The Antichrist. The Unbecoming.

They had known the Antithesis would emerge one day. It was written on the Tablet by Rafa's hand. The details had remained obscured, but this? This was... this was madness. Birthed by a Mary? Birthed from a Survival Challenge? The Great Plan had always been to bring Rapture about themselves after the conclusion of the final Survival Challenge. For Him to reawaken in the material world and forge an army of light from the victors. So that when the Antithesis arrived, the worlds would be well prepared to protect creation.

But here they were. This was the present. The now. This was what had come to pass.

"Will He see us?" asked Jibra'il in a low voice. He longed to see the Almighty, to stand in His presence, to bow his head in shame and beg forgiveness. To seek guidance. It had been two thousand years since he’d seen the Almighty last as only Rafa’el was permitted to fly up to the Throne. Another pang of jealousy struck his heart. Jealousy that Rafa’el could see Him. And jealousy that the Almighty could keep Rafa’el all for Himself.

Azra'il scoffed. Mika’el bowed her head. It was Rafa'el who answered him. "The Almighty does not wish to be seen until He has procured material form once more and the work is renewed. A suitable candidate must be found, for whom you must be the guide, my beloved."

"A third Mary?"

"As it will be," said Rafa’el. She blinked and reached for the air. "It has been written, but the Mary has not yet been decided. Fate seeks her out. And the actions of the mortals... everything in such confusion, such disharmony."

Jibra'il shook his head. So much uncertainty. Rafa'el writes what she learns, inscribing destiny into the tablet, but everything shifts, winds and unwinds, until it is done and set in stone. It must be agony for her; here he'd been lamenting his failures and lamenting what was to come without consideration for what Rafa'el must see. What Rafa'el must bear as the ending approaches.

"The Antithesis will build an army," said Azra'il. "We have always known this. Why are we alarmed? The dead are prepared. Our angels are ready. The humans will fall in line."

"And we shall rain blood and storm on all who oppose Him," said Mika'el quietly, speaking for the first time. "We shall wage war in His name and bring perfection to all creation."

Azra'il laughed. "You have waited long and patiently for the bloodshed, my sister. It will be glorious seeing you in action again. We shall be victorious, and He will ascend-"

"-for he is the Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful," they finished in unison.

"And what of the severer?" asked Jibra'il after a solemn moment of silence. It was a struggle to even think of such a mortal. The power to sever. The power to reconstruct. Only the Almighty possessed such duality, even Jibra'il himself could only open wounds between worlds. He could not heal them, only shut them once the challenges had ended. He hadn't known it was possible to heal them.

Rafa'el smiled sadly, a smile that made Jibra'il's heart twinge. He wanted to pick her up. Wanted to hold her in his arms and press his lips to the crease in her radiant forehead and assure her that whatever she'd written, whatever she'd foreseen, they would be together.

"That we do not know, my love. She slipped through the worlds, beyond our reach. But she is vital. The Tablet has reached its final lines, I can feel the ending approaching, and her name appears so many times, I have memorized the shape of her. She will go on to commit such a crime against the Almighty, against destiny itself. But this has not been affixed. It remains in flux, obscured from my sight. The words shift with unease. She must be stopped at all costs. We must stop her at all costs."

A crime against the Almighty? Jibra'il's wings shuddered, but he managed to hold his composure as Mika'el pounded her thighs with her fists, unable to suppress her rage. Azra'il crushed one of the skulls on his necklace, the bone shards scattering in all directions. The Penultimate Cloud responded with the booming roar of thunder.

"And what is her name?" asked Jibra'il quietly. He couldn't understand how a mortal could do anything against Him. Against destiny.

"Jenny Huang."